Chapter 2
Chapter Two
S loane’s brain scrambled, cherry picking elements of him. The thick, black hair and olive complexion that spoke of his mother’s Greek heritage. The unusual pale green eyes that had come to him through his father. Dark stubble covered the lower part of his face and jaw. His six-foot-two height seemed taller in this moment than it had back when she’d been accustomed to it. Lips—soft yet cynical. Body—fit and strong.
For three years, he’d been her college friend. Then for six years, her business partner. But four years had passed since she’d seen or spoken to him and now Max was both wildly familiar and completely foreign.
He held a strangely shaped metal object at his side and wore a gray crewneck sweater, jeans, and expensive-looking sneakers. She’d never seen these clothes on him before.
What a nonsensical thought. Of course she’d never seen these clothes on him.
Max .
She’d determined never to interact with him again. Yet here he was in a place he should not be. What in the world was happening right now? Her brain was reeling?—
“Strange,” he said, “that an etiquette expert would knock on a door and then say absolutely nothing to the person who answers.”
Obviously, he knew about her business, My Fair Lady Etiquette. “Etiquette does not apply to you and me,” she said tightly.
“Oh? I’d no idea there were things in your world to which etiquette does not apply.”
“Just one thing.” She gave him a telling look.
He had the gall to wink .
She drew back her shoulders. “I’m here to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Brewster.”
“That will be difficult seeing as how Mr. and Mrs. Brewster are deceased.”
“Deceased?”
“You’re remembering them from when you were in high school. They were getting up in years then and that was fifteen years ago.”
A blush rushed up her cheeks. Now that she thought about it, the Brewsters had been quite old when she was in high school. “In that case, I’m here to speak to the current owners.”
“Owner. Singular.” He appeared to be relishing this painful exchange. “You’re speaking to him.”
His statement was too awful to absorb. It hung in her ears, going round and round. Please let him be toying with me. Please let someone else own this estate. “You’ve had your fun. Now I’d very much like to speak to the owners so that I may address an issue with them.”
“What’s your issue?”
“There’s no running water in the garage apartment.”
“Oh?” he said, droll. With fake surprise, he lifted the metal object he held. “Look what I have here. The tool needed to get water flowing to the garage apartment.” He stared at her dead-on, one eyebrow raised.
He’d answered the door carrying the tool to turn on the water. Because he’d known she’d be coming to complain about the lack of water. Because he’d purposely turned off the flow. “You knew that Ivy and I were the ones moving into the garage apartment,” she concluded.
He said nothing. His smug expression was answer enough.
“How did this happen?” she asked. “How did Ivy and I end up in an apartment that you own?”
“Fate?”
Dawning understanding was coursing through her in hot ripples. She’d once known Max very well. He was cunning and the type of person who’d buy a well-known property like The Gables purely to prove to the world that he was wealthy enough to do so. “You did this. Somehow you arranged it so that Brooke would rent this particular apartment.”
“Don’t give me too much credit?—”
“—I give you no credit?—”
“—because it wasn’t hard. When I heard that you were coming back, I remembered that Brooke’s friend Jennifer works in real estate. I mentioned to Jennifer that I was considering renting out my apartment for an incredibly cheap price, but only to renters who she knew personally and who would stay at least four months. I’ve had more difficulty putting on a T-shirt than I had arranging this.”
Anger pounded against her temples. “Why would you want me and Ivy living in the garage apartment?”
“I’ve always liked Ivy a lot, as you know. But her living in the apartment is just incidental. It’s you I want there.”
“For what purpose?”
“Closure.”
She glared at him.
He made a tsk sound. “Glaring is not good etiquette.”
“What do you mean by closure ?”
“An explanation. And an apology.” His tone was extremely smooth and casual. The more smooth and casual Max’s delivery, the less he liked you.
“You will not be receiving either of those things from me.” She was known for her calm and poise. They were hallmarks of her personality. Yet in this moment, Sloane could feel her grip on calm and poise disintegrating. Holding her head high, she strode off the porch.
“I thought you wanted your water turned back on.”
“No need.” She didn’t look back. “Ivy and I are moving out.”
“You bet. Go ahead and do that if you want to stick Brooke and Jared with a giant bill.”
Her steps whipped to a halt, which sent her long skirt rushing forward before falling against her shins. She forced her chin in his direction.
“The rental agreement they signed,” he explained, “has lots of very fine print but is completely legal. Breaking the lease carries a sizeable penalty.”
Her blood pressure skyrocketed. “I’ll need to see a copy of that agreement.”
He grinned. In his contradictory way, he liked that she’d made that demand. It showed how wily and untrusting she’d become, thanks in large part to her history with him.
He lifted papers off the entry table, met her where she stood, and handed over the agreement. This, too, he had anticipated.
She glanced over it. No way was she going to read the whole thing with him as her audience. But she definitely would read the whole thing. Every word. “What’s your plan?” she asked, looking up. “To force me to stay in an apartment with no running water?”
“What kind of monster do you think I am? I’m a benevolent landlord and will gladly turn on your water.” He walked to a spot near the driveway and lifted a lid off what she assumed was the main water valve. As always, his body moved with athletic grace and easy confidence.
Clutching the papers, she made her way toward the apartment like a train thundering along tracks.
“Happy housewarming,” he called mockingly. The sound of his amused chuckle followed her.
She shut the door behind her and locked it with a snap.
This was a disaster.
The summer and fall Sloane had envisioned was folding in on itself like the papers she was unconsciously folding into smaller and smaller rectangles.
This was a disaster.
Max adjusted the valve to allow for the flow of water, then straightened.
He’d lost numerous things in his life. He’d lost the home he’d lived in up until the age of fourteen. He’d lost his anonymity. He’d lost his family’s good name. But losing Sloane was the loss that had cut him the deepest.
Back inside his house, he set the tool aside and walked straight through to the den at the back. From here, a wall of sliding doors gave him a clear view of the garage.
Sloane was back. And not just back but living steps from his house. Satisfaction filled his chest as he crossed his arms. The payoff of this was even greater than he’d anticipated.
Memories of the night he’d met her circled like a whirlpool, clearer in some ways than things that had happened to him yesterday.
It had been near the end of his freshman year at Penn. He’d just finished dinner with friends at a Philadelphia restaurant within walking distance of a Coldplay concert. As usual, he ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a hot dog and chips that night. And, as usual, he hoped no one would notice he’d ordered the cheapest thing. The restaurant had been packed with people who, unlike him, could afford tickets to the concert. Lots of Coldplay T-shirts and excited talking and drinking. As the concert’s start time neared, the place emptied in a rush.
“Sure you don’t want to at least walk over there with us?” his buddy asked. “There might be someone scalping a ticket you could buy.”
“Nah, I need to study.” A lie.
His friends slapped him on the back, gave him fist bumps, then left him standing next to a bus-stop pole.
A pack of college girls exited the restaurant and he watched almost the exact same goodbye scene play out between a brunette and her friends. The rest of the girls made their way toward the concert. The brunette stayed behind.
Suddenly it was the two of them waiting for the bus in surroundings that turned quieter and quieter. She gave Max the small, noncommittal smile you give strangers in response to brief eye contact before looking away.
She had a pale oval face and generous lips. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and hung past her shoulders. It had volume but no curl. Dark eyes. Very little makeup. Her white shirt collar folded neatly over the neckline of her navy sweater. Her height was average—not tall, not short. Thanks to her skinny jeans, he could see that she had a good body.
His first impression? Unremarkable. Pretty but not beautiful. There was kindness in her face and modesty in her clothes. She reminded him of the neighborhood girls he’d known back home, who were nice and who you liked just fine but never dated.
He didn’t see a reason to bother making conversation with her.
Except . . .
He was noticing there were a few unusual things about her. Almost every girl her age he knew would pass time at a bus stop looking down at her phone. Her chin was up, face turned to the side, feet planted exactly together. She held herself very still. She was polished, in the way that some of the rich girls he knew were polished. Yet if she was rich, she’d be going to the concert.
“Are you in college around here?” he asked, deciding conversation with her might be worth the effort.
She looked over, revealing slight surprise that he’d spoken. “I am. At Penn.”
“Same here. What year are you?”
“Freshman.”
“Me too.”
“What’s your major?” she asked.
“Business.”
“I’m also a business major.”
“Huh. Lots of similarities.” He smiled. “Next you’re going to tell me that you’re from Maine.”
Her eyes rounded and he saw that she had long, thick eyelashes. “I actually am from Maine.”
“No.”
She released a huff of amusement. “I truly am. I know for a fact, though, that you’re not from my hometown of Waldoboro. I’m familiar with everyone in Waldoboro who’s my age.”
“I’m from Groomsport originally but moved to Montville for high school.”
“I know Groomsport well. My little niece lives there.”
“You’re basically the female version of me.”
“Or maybe,” she said with gentle teasing, “you’re the male version of me.”
He stuck out his hand. “I’m Max Cirillo.”
She showed no sign of recognizing his name, which was good. “Sloane Madison.” She had a solid handshake. Firm and brief. “It’s a pleasure.”
They’d talked easily while they’d waited. When the bus came, he took the seat in front of hers, then twisted to face her so they could continue talking on the ride to campus.
Max only went out with girls who were beautiful, knew they were beautiful, and advertised their beauty. He felt sexual chemistry with girls who wore low-cut tops and high-cut skirts. He didn’t feel sexual chemistry toward Sloane. But he did like her.
At Penn, he’d walked her to her dorm. They’d said goodnight without exchanging numbers. But then, two days later, in the lecture hall for Economics, he’d noticed her sitting a few rows below and to the right of him. The next time he’d entered that class, he’d sat next to her. When finals rolled around, they’d studied together.
Fall of their sophomore year, they’d had two classes together and shared more and more study sessions. When one of them had to miss class, the other would supply notes. When professors assigned group projects, they paired up.
Over time, he’d learned that his joking comment—that she was basically the female version of him—was truer than he could have imagined. They had the same personality—both driven, success-oriented, sensible. Both personable and confident. The two of them were at the top of their class, Sloane even more so than he was. They both had brains built to excel at business.
Max’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Though he didn’t pull his phone free, the buzzing jolted him back to the present.
Sloane hadn’t changed much in the past four years. Her expressive brown eyes were exactly the same, glittering the way they always had. She was the type of person who never varied her hairstyle. She’d added some caramel-colored highlights to the front, which were flattering. But otherwise her hair was still the color and length he remembered.
Her face and body were slightly more lean. Was she eating enough?
She wore pale pink lipstick now, which suited her.
She’d switched her perfume. It smelled of coffee.
Nothing romantic had ever passed between them. Yet his relationship with her had been longer-lasting and far more important to him than any of his romances had been. Right up until Sloane had stabbed him in the back.
He didn’t care enough about any of his past girlfriends to pull the strings needed to land one of them in his garage apartment. But with Sloane?
The opposite was true.
Sloane delighted in her morning ritual.
When the weather permitted, which it did the majority of the time in California, she started her day with a cup of coffee outdoors. By the time her mug was empty, she’d have read her devotional, prayed, and done a paragraph or two of journaling.
On this, her first morning in Darth Vader’s apartment, she carried her mug, devotional, Bible, and journal to the café table on her landing. Savoring her first sip of coffee, she soaked in Maine’s summer splendor?—
Her vision intersected with the sight of Max.
The coffee went down the wrong way and she ended up coughing to clear droplets from her airway.
In a mocking salute, he raised his mug from where he sat at the outdoor table on his expansive patio, wearing a white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. Sloane herself had on silk pajamas beneath a pink chenille robe. Even with the robe, the weather was on the chilly side for her. Max was only wearing the T-shirt. But then, Max had always been warm-natured?—
Ignore him .
He knew about her morning ritual. He’d come outside to ruin it for her. She scooted her chair around so that instead of facing the larger view of The Gables, she faced the landing’s half wall and treetops. Well. Treetops were also lovely to look at in the morning.
She opened her devotional and tried to process the first sentence, but the meaning wouldn’t penetrate. She could feel Max’s attention, beating against her back.
She’d yet to even begin to reconcile herself to the fact that she’d be spending the next four months in a garage apartment that he owned. She’d not made peace with that. Not accepted it. She had, however, gone over the rental agreement. Clearly, Brooke and Jared had signed it without reading it. They’d certainly never have consented to such a large monetary penalty for breaking the lease. Sloane had called the law firm listed, and they’d confirmed the document to be legitimate.
Max’s footfalls crunched near her position.
“I slept better last night,” he called up to her, “than I’ve slept since you moved to California.”
She said nothing.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
She slid her chin in his direction, observing him the way she’d observe a cockroach on her bathroom floor. Max came to a stop on the lawn below, his hair in disarray. Unfairly, his features had hardened and matured with age in such a way that he was even more handsome now than he’d been when younger. And he’d been mysterious-looking and gorgeous back then. Max’s face, coloring, and charisma came together in such a way that they’d always tugged at the romantic dreams of women. She’d seen the evidence of that a thousand times.
Fortunately for her, she’d always recognized that Max recognized exactly how appealing he was. Which had helped her remain immune. They were both now thirty-two, him six months older than she. Max’s understanding of his appeal had likely grown tenfold because at this age he wasn’t merely handsome. He’d become both handsome and a multimillionaire. Which was supremely irritating.
“I slept poorly,” she said.
“I had the garage apartment designed for my mom with the best of everything. So I know you didn’t sleep poorly because of the quality of the mattress or sheets.”
“It wasn’t the mattress or sheets,” she said meaningfully.
He chuckled, pleased to have destroyed her rest. “Enjoying your coffee more than your night’s sleep?”
“I only enjoy my coffee when I’m left to do so in solitude.”
Ivy emerged from the apartment in a voluminous sweatshirt and leggings. She followed Sloane’s attention downward. “ Max? ”
“Ivy.” He opened his arms.
She dashed downstairs and hugged him.
“I remember toddler Ivy,” he said as they separated, “and elementary school Ivy but this version is your best yet.”
“I think I was eleven the last time I saw you. I’m fifteen now.”
“Try not to break the heart of every boy at your high school, okay? Have pity.”
Ivy glowed. “Boys aren’t really that interested in me.”
“Only because they’re intimidated by your greatness.”
“What are you . . .” Ivy glanced with confusion at Sloane, then back to Max. “What brings you here?”
“I live here.”
Her jaw dropped. “You live at The Gables?”
“Yes. Just so you know, my company is thriving so I’m hugely wealthy.”
“Wow!”
“He’s also pig-headed and untrustworthy,” Sloane added. She hadn’t felt up to explaining the identity of their landlord to Ivy yet. She’d intended to do so later in the day. Her way, after coffee. Add that to the list of things Max had destroyed.
“You two had a big fight years ago, right?” Ivy asked Sloane.
“Yes,” Sloane answered, crisp.
“Have you guys made up?”
“No.”
“Ooh.” Ivy bit her bottom lip and winced at Max. “Awkward.”
“Only for her,” Max said.
Simultaneously, Sloane said, “Only for him.”
“I’d do anything for you, Ivy.” Max disarmed females with over-the-top statements like that one. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need to make your stay with me more comfortable. Gucci purse, Tiffany bracelet?—”
“Do not take that bait,” Sloane warned her niece.
Ivy laughed. She’d always been a huge fan of Max. “Your apartment is really great. I love it. I don’t think there’s anything we’re going to need.”
“Except a security gate to keep intruders away from the apartment,” Sloane murmured.
His attention sliced to Sloane. He had the hearing of a fox. “Owners can’t be intruders.”
“Until just this moment, I would have concurred with that.”
Ivy giggled nervously.
“See you soon, Ivy.” He moved off.
“See you soon, Max.”
Ivy ascended, coming to a stop next to Sloane’s table.
Across the garden, Max resumed his seat on his patio, his focus still fixed on Sloane.
“Did you know he was the owner of this property?” Ivy asked in a stage whisper.
“I found out yesterday afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was trying to come to terms with it first. He orchestrated things so that we’d move in here.”
Ivy whistled. “Why’d he do that?”
“He says he wants closure.”
Ivy’s smile communicated encouragement. “I really liked it when you two were friends. Maybe, living so close together, you’ll both get closure and be able to forgive each other.”
“Maybe.” Sloane couldn’t very well scream NEVER! to the concept of forgiveness with a Bible sitting inches away.
“There’s this . . . spark-y vibe between you and Max.” Ivy flashed her hands open and closed to demonstrate.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean spark-y.” More flashing hands. “Being near you guys right now reminded me that the vibe was there between you guys before, too.”
Sloane had been a reserved fifteen-year-old who wouldn’t have insisted to her adult aunt that she had a spark-y vibe with a man. Yet she loved that her niece was spunky enough to speak her mind.
It wasn’t that Ivy was indestructibly assertive. Ivy frequently exhibited self-consciousness and shyness. However, she usually pushed past those in order to say and do whatever was true to her. That was Ivy at this age—a charming mix of gawky and brave. Also sweet, goofy, impatient, and enthusiastic.
“It’s been a long time since you were near Max and me simultaneously,” Sloane said calmly. “You would have been in elementary school.”
“But I was a smart elementary schooler. Smart enough to notice sparks.” Ivy peeked toward The Gables. “He’s looking at you like he’s a panther who wants to eat you.”
“If he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me, it’s because he hates me and wants to kill me.”
Ivy shrugged—the universal teenage symbol of willingness to dismiss one topic and move to another. She dropped into the empty chair. “Is this a good time to talk about my big summer plan?”
“Sure. Do you mean working at the church and taking driver’s ed and spending time at the beach with your doting aunt?”
“No, my bigger summer plan.” Ivy lifted her eyebrows a few times. “Mom said she told you about how I want to find my birth father.”
Sloane braced inwardly. The topic of Ivy’s parentage was an emotional one for her. “Your mom did tell me about that, yes.”
“Okay. So, I’ve been thinking about my birth father a lot lately. I can’t really explain why. Except that I feel a sense of incompleteness. I . . . need to know more. I’m hoping to find out who he is so I can meet him.”
“All right, but I feel honor bound to ask how it will affect you if he’s not ready to meet you? Or doesn’t turn out to be a good guy?”
“If that happens, I’ll deal. I really want to give this a try. You’ll help me?”
“I’ll always help and support you in any way that I can.”
“Thank you.” Ivy hopped to her feet. “I’ll be right back with food. Do you want anything?”
“Fresh coffee?”
“Yep.” Ivy swiped up Sloane’s mug and sailed indoors.
The stereotypical oldest child was high-achieving and rule following. In Sloane’s family, those traits had somehow skipped over Harper, older by two years, and landed on Sloane. Harper had been beautiful, sensitive, free-wheeling, creative. Unfortunately, she’d also been wounded, unreliable, and self-destructive.
Growing up, Sloane and Harper had been close. Then Harper had graduated from high school, left home the day after, and moved to Boston. For the next year and a half, Sloane’s contact with her had been scant. Until the day Harper called out of the blue and bluntly announced that she’d given birth to a baby girl.
Sloane had been shocked.
Dad had been shocked.
They’d driven to Harper’s apartment in Boston and met five-day-old baby Ivy.
On that late-fall day, Sloane had been seventeen years old, a studious girl with a singular aim—get a scholarship to college so she could better her circumstances in life.
Instantly, though, when she’d held her niece in her arms and looked down into that rosebud face, her world had expanded to encompass Ivy. Even then, Ivy’s hair had been ginger, her skin milky, her temperament sunny. For Sloane it had been love at first sight.
Here , Sloane had thought, is at last a family member who might love me, who might stay, who might be kind, who might care .
In the weeks and months that followed, Sloane had made several weekend trips to visit Harper and Ivy. Harper had needed a lot of help and Sloane had tried to give it. It hadn’t been enough. Or even close to enough. On one of those Boston weekends when Ivy was five months old, Harper had sat Sloane down and informed her that she wasn’t cut out for motherhood.
Sloane remembered where she’d been sitting during that conversation. On the crummy blue sofa in Harper’s efficiency apartment. There’d been rain on the windows, the warm weight of Ivy asleep on Sloane’s shoulder, dismay in Sloane’s heart.
Harper had gone on to say many things. That she wanted Ivy to have the best life possible but knew she couldn’t provide that for her daughter. That she’d found a couple who were older, married, settled. They already had a biological daughter followed by two adopted sons of different ethnicities.
“The parents are named Brooke and Jared Ray,” Harper had told her. “They’re cool with open adoption, so we can see Ivy a lot . It’ll be good for Ivy to grow up with lots of siblings. They live in Maine, so it will be like a do-over for Ivy . She’ll get to have the childhood in Maine I wish we’d had . ”
Sloane had been sick with grief.
Ivy was supposed to have been the one who loved Sloane. The one who stayed. She’d felt like a starving person presented with a meal, only to have the meal jerked away after just one bite.
But Harper’s mind had been made up.
The Rays had swiftly adopted Ivy.
Teenaged Sloane hadn’t known the thing that the passage of years had proven absolutely to be true. Namely, that Ivy’s adoption had been the very, very best thing.
For all of them.
Brooke and Jared were laid-back, warm, and outgoing. Their house brimmed with exuberant commotion. Their door had always been wide open to the birth family members of their three adopted children. The Rays’ generosity meant that Sloane had been able to see and spend time with Ivy. Which had become easier to do seeing as how the Rays’ house in Groomsport was a short drive from Waldoboro—much closer than Boston.
The most surprising blessing of all was that Brooke had taken one look at Sloane and immediately recognized her pain and loneliness. Brooke had a big heart. Big enough to mother her four children and to make room under her wing for Sloane, too.
Even now, Sloane teared up when she thought about it. More than once, she’d tried to express her gratitude to Brooke. Brooke would listen and indicate that she understood. Yet because Brooke and Jared hadn’t walked Sloane’s path, they could never fully understand. Brooke and Jared both had happily married parents. They had close-knit, “white-picket-fence” extended families. So, no. They could never fully understand how much Sloane’s relationship with Ivy and with them meant to her.
Ivy returned with a bowl of Cheerios and milk topped with banana slices. She handed Sloane her mug, settled at the table, and downed a few bites of cereal.
Harper’s long ago wish for her daughter, that Ivy would have the best life possible? It had come true.
“So,” Ivy said, “back to my big summer plan! You’re the only person left who knew me during the first five months of my life.”
The statement landed heavy on Sloane because of why it was true. It was true because Harper had died of an overdose four years ago and because Sloane’s father had never attempted to know Ivy.
“Is there anything you can tell me about my biological father?” Ivy asked.
“I can tell you that he was not around during your first five months. He was already out of the picture by then.” Sloane took a swallow of coffee, tasting its dark, chocolatey flavors. “I asked Harper about him, but she didn’t tell me much. Only that he’d been a short-term boyfriend.”
“She didn’t say his name?”
“No.”
“Anything else you know about him?”
“I’m guessing he had red or ginger hair. For which I will forever be grateful.” Fondly, she tugged a lock of Ivy’s hair.
“I must look like him, right? Because I don’t look like Harper.”
This, too, landed heavy. Sloane loved Ivy’s look. Yet it was true that she didn’t resemble Harper very much. “Your eyes are brown like Harper’s were.” Though, Harper’s eyes had been world-weary. Ivy’s were open and trusting. “And Harper had freckles like you do.”
“But her face was really different. Sort of hard and pointy.” Ivy took another bite of cereal. “My face is soft.”
“Wonderfully so,” Sloane said staunchly. As always, Sloane did not mention Ivy’s etiquette lapses. At present: hunched posture and elbows on the table.
“Harper was a brunette.” Ivy continued to list the differences between herself and her biological mother. “And my lips are puffier than hers were. More like yours, actually.”
“Matching lips.” Sloane blew Ivy a kiss.
Ivy blew Sloane a kiss back. “Any ideas how we could find my biological dad?”
Before Ivy’s parents had gone overseas, Sloane and Brooke had talked at length about Ivy’s interest in finding her birth father. Brooke, in her relaxed and imperturbable way, had made it clear that she and Jared viewed Ivy’s desire to meet her biological father as perfectly natural. They understood, too, why Ivy wanted Sloane’s assistance with her search. To Ivy, Brooke and Jared were Mom and Dad. But Sloane was her younger, cool auntie as well as the sister of Ivy’s biological mother. As such, it made sense that Ivy would view Sloane as her ally in all things related to her biological relatives.
Brooke had told Sloane that she had their full blessing and permission to help Ivy with the search while they were away. And, in turn, Sloane had promised that she and Ivy would keep Brooke informed every step of the way.
Secretly, though, Sloane had been hoping Ivy would change her mind about finding her birth father. Selfishly, Sloane didn’t want to share her niece with a man who’d invested nothing in Ivy except his DNA. More than that, she worried that this search would end in disappointment for Ivy, and she’d prefer to shield her from that.
“I suppose,” Sloane said, “that your biological father’s name might be on your adoption documents or birth certificate.”
Thoughtfully, Ivy chewed cereal. “But a group of like ten Italian people have moved into my house. So I can’t look for those documents there.”
“When Harper passed away . . .” Would it always be painful to speak that sentence? Or would there come a day when she could say it with only gratitude for the years she’d had with her sister? “Dad and I put all of Harper’s important belongings into storage containers.” Two, to be factual. Harper’s existence—reduced to two containers. “Those containers are at my dad’s place. Any documents she would have had about your adoption or birth would be there.”
Ivy straightened, brightening. “Oh! Can we go by there and look?”
“Sure. Maybe next week?” It would take that long for Sloane to pep-talk herself into seeing her father. “I’ll call to see which day works for him.”
“Perfect.”